


11/07/2039

by Woljf



Series: A Purely Human Problem [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor has a vagina, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Translation from Russian, Vaginal Sex, good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woljf/pseuds/Woljf
Summary: A year has passed since their conversation in Riverside Park, and here are they again, except Hank doesn't want to die anymore, and Connor is no more a tool designed to serve humans. Unless he is willing to.





	11/07/2039

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Сугубо человеческая проблема (часть 2)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/432371) by Элайджа Бейли. 



> written by kohvoo aka Элайджа Бейли  
> translated by woljf aka Вольк

Last year the Riverside park was covered in snow, this year it drowned in rains, and the wet pavement looked like an extension of the river. It mirrored the lights from the Ambassador Bridge — blue, yellow, pink, — as festive as lights on a christmas tree.   
  
It was more than six weeks till Christmas: the seventh of November. Exactly a year ago at this very place Hank had pointed his gun at Connor, and now Connor was standing beside him, leaning on the rails and looking at the splashes of light on the Detroit river.   
  
Hank himself couldn't understand how they'd got here.   
  
Today they closed quite an unpleasant case of an extremist group that was planning to taint some thirium tanks, and than they celebrated it in a bar. Well, Hank celebrated and allowed himself unprecedented four shots while Connor accompanied him. Connor always accompanied him, especially now that a "no androids allowed" sign most times led to a fine.    
  
A year ago the world was different, but everything seemed to go nuts these days. As a boy Hank didn't even have a computer, only a Nintendo from a consignment store. Less than half a century later he was standing next to human who wasn't born from a man and woman, but from a robot in some Cyberlife's assembly shop.   
  
Sometimes this thought made Hank dizzy.   
  
"Why are we here?" he asked.   
  
Connor smiled. His temple LED was blue.   
  
Most androids got rid of the LEDs, as they were a symbol of slavery, but Connor kept his. Hank had thought that it was how his deviancy showed in a twisted way, until Connor explained it — casually, in a conversation near the station's coffee machine.   
  
"This way people can easier understand what I feel."   
  
"In my opinion," Hank said then, "You are already showing your emotions just fine."   
  
"You just know me well enough," Connor replied with the same faint smile.   
  
He took the coffee cup, put a plastic lid on it and handed it to Hank, and Hank felt with absolute clearness how deeply was fucked.   
  
Such insights were supposed to scare, but then he thought: at fifty three a man with a mindset like his has only that many reasons to feel shivers in his chest and other places. And in any case, Connor was a safe option, as he remained completely out of reach.   
  
The news of relationships between androids and humans now and then appeared on the TV. Marriages weren't legalized yet, as the authorities struggled to come up with a formal base, but that was only a question of time. The society, nurtured in tolerance, swallowed it immediately. Nobody judged anybody, or at least not out loud.

 

But Connor was out of reach in his own right — not because he was an android, but because he was Connor: focused on work, diligent, hard-working, unable to relax, touching in his flashy undeviation, which made him more deviant than any other. This summer sergeant Lou tried hitting on him, while everyone in the department made bets in quiet.  But it didn't work out. When Connor understood what was going on he gently declined.

 

Yeah, that was in June. About a month before the horrible realization.

 

“A year ago you pointed your gun at me here.”

“You’ve remembered that and brought me here to have your revenge?” Hank asked with a smile.

 

Last time he had a bottle of beer. Apparently he was sitting on the bench, and apparently he felt like shit, although the latter was a sure one: last year he felt like shit almost all the time, and the days he woke up not thinking of suicide were the good days.

 

Such days were rare. Now there were more of them.

 

“I can't forget,” Connor replied. “Even if I run out of built-in memory, I’ll just send some of my memories to the server and will access them whenever needed.”

“And you can’t delete any?” Hank asked, intrigued. “Sounds horrible.”

 

Connor’s LED flashed yellow and returned to its usual blue.   
  


“I can.”

“Can you delete the memories of being an android?”

 

Now his LED flashed red. Hank felt embarrassed, but Connor replied before he got to apologize.

“It’s possible. I’ve never thought of it.”

“Just get it out of your head.”

“I’m not able to  _ get it out of my head _ ”, Connor replied at once. He made a tiny pause and smiled, as he always did when making a joke. Hank snorted.

“So, what are we here for?”

“A year ago we were talking here about Tracies from Eden. You called them “girls”, as if they were humans rather than machines.”

“I’m a good detective”, Hank said, ironically. He had no beer with him, but he needed to busy his hands somehow. He took the cigarettes out of his pocket, clicked his Zippo, inhaled the smoke. Smoking after whiskey felt good, although Hank practically gave up: one pack of Marlboro was enough for two or three weeks. “I just predicted what was coming.”

“You said they looked in love with each other,” Connor continued. Hank sighed.

“You aren’t going to retell me our conversation, are you? I am no android, of course, but neither an idiot to forget it all.”

 

He wasn’t totally sincere. That day was full of shit, and his brain did a good job in forgetting the details.

 

“Then you asked me whether I am a machine or not,” Connor stubbornly continued, “and I answered that I could be whatever you wanted me to be.”

“Yeah,” Hank agreed, flick ash off into the river. “You’ve become a great partner, although I don’t get why the hell you haven’t switched to the android department.”

 

For some reason Hank felt uncomfortable. He shifted his gaze to Connor, who seemed to be waiting for something.

 

“And a friend,” Hank added and stubbed out the cigarette butt against the rails. “You’ve become a great friend too.”

“I would like to be something more than a friend to you,” Connor stated. Hank started laughing. Connor’s LED flashed red. Hank stopped laughing.

“Like what?”

“A partner in a different sense.” Connor face was very serious, almost solemn. Hank waited, but no smile followed. “Intimate sense,” he continued, apparently taking his silence for not understanding. “Romantic sense. Whichever is better with you, although I would prefer a romantic relationship.”

“ _ You  _ would prefer?”

“We can discuss everything,” Connor said with a halt, flashing yellow on and off. “I guess that is customary?”

 

Hank wasn’t drunk enough to hallucinate, and the fresh air wiped whatever few promille there were. He felt painfully sober.  It was no dream.

 

“Are you…” He fell silent, looking for words. “Are you asking to date me?”

 

Oh God Almighty, that was some high school crap. Hank hadn’t said such a thing for over twenty years.

 

“Yes,” Connor replied.

“Why?” Hunk asked, surprised, and reached into his pocket for another cigarette.

“Why do I offer you a romantic relationship?”

“Yeah, why do you offer me a romantic relationship?”

The conversation went out of control. Connor’s LED blinked yellow and red again and again. Hank felt his conscience biting at him, but he understood that if he had a LED on his temple, it would shine so red it could turn the Detroit river into Kamski’s show-off pool.

 

“I…” Always so smooth-spoken, now Connor ran into an obstacle. “I thought this is a standard offer to somebody you like.”

 

Laughing would be rude, and Hank managed not to, even though it took him an all-out effort. Connor looked sad. In the middle of his third drag Hank got that he was completely serious.

 

“You like me?” Hank repeated like some moron. “You like me and you brought be to the Riverside park to ask me to date you?”

“This seemed appropriate. We successfully closed the case, you were in good spirits, it’s an important date for both of us. Am I wrong?”

 

Hank stood silent.

 

So many things ran through his head, an orderly list of brilliant proofs why their hypothetical relationship was a horrible idea, but Hank could parry any of them on his own.

 

Age difference? Androids don’t have age. Working in the same department? It’s been a shitton of years since relationships between police officers are allowed. Different species? Ha-ha, Hank mentally shot back at himself.

 

You are not my type. You are making a mistake. Find someone better. Like sergeant Lou. She is young, beautiful and talented. She has all the chances to take command of the Detroit police department and become the youngest captain in the city history, what with her crime solving rate and working fury. You can sit up late together and plug away at cases. And she keeps a healthy lifestyle, jogs every morning. Even her dog matches her — a leggy lurcher from some shelter that can fetch balls as inexhaustibly as sergeant Lou fetches reports to the captain’s table.

 

“Why did you say no to Lou?” Hank asked.

“Sergeant Lou is a talented policewoman and a good company, but she doesn’t attract me either romantically or intimately.”

“But I do?”

“Hank.” Connor’s voice sounded uneasy: Hank had heard such first at the greenhouse and a few times after that. “I am more than sure that you’ve heard and understood me. If you don’t want to, you can put it straight, I will not bring this up ever again.”

 

He jerked his chin up in a very human manner.

 

“I understood you,” Hank heard himself as if from afar. He had only one cigarette left, he took it and put the empty pack back into his pocket.

 

He thought suddenly; no, this is no dream, the world hasn’t seemed so real for a long while. The rails under his fingers were wet and cold, the Detroit river stank distinctly with slime, somewhere in the distance he could hear children screaming and a dog barking. Tobacco smoke smelled bitter and like the kitchen in the morning at his parents’ place, where Hank had first fished out half a cigarette left my his mom in the ashtray, lit it with a fireplace match and smoked.

 

“You can’t just jump at somebody and demand answers,” he said. Connor raised his eyebrows, his LED flashed yellow.

“You are being ironic,” Connor replied, “but I’ve anticipated such a reaction. I’ve anticipated as well that you would try to prove my feelings as false.”

“You’ve run through all the scenarios, haven’t you?”

“I’ve come prepared.” A pause. A smile.

 

Hank gave a nervous smile back.

 

“Have you anticipated that I don’t,” he jerked his fingers, “reciprocate your feelings?”

 

Connor cast his eyes down. Of course he knew it all. The best poker face was futile against the abilities of a police android, because human body goes crazy once someone you like appears in sight.

 

“We’ve discussed this before, mister Spock,” Hank said with a gentle reproach. “It is impolite to meld with people against their will.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure.”

“Terrible idea.” Hank smoked the cigarette to the end and sent it to take a swim in the river.

“Perhaps.”

“It won’t work out.”

“There is such a possibility.”

“And what’s the percentage for this possibility?”

“I don’t want to tell.”

 

Every time Connor said “I don’t want” something fluttered inside Hank. It took him a lot to teach Connor to say it out loud.

 

“Although it’s lower than the chance of having a heart attack with the amount of alcohol, tobacco and unhealthy food you consume,” Connor added.

 

Hank moaned for a show.

 

“What’s that, your grumpy wife mode? You went to the nutjobs at Cyberlife and asked to install it specially for me?”

“That was a joke.” Connor smiled and Hank mentally whistled. “But I did go to Cyberlife to install some new additions.”

“What kind of additions?”

“I can show you somewhere more intimate.”

 

Hank caught on. Age seemed to make him a bit slower thinking, and the realization hit him like an SUV hits a roe in the middle of a road. Against his will his gaze lowered down, to Connor’s crotch, even though Hank understood there was nothing to see, not with the long wool coat all buttoned-up.

 

“Why?”

“I knew there was an option to install such an augmentation, and I decided to take it.”

“So you wanted to get laid?”

“Yes, Hank. I wanted to get laid.”

 

Hank took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He fumbled the pack in his pocket, remembered it was empty, and crumpled it in frustration. It would be funny unless the situation concerned him in particular. 

 

“Lou…”

“Hank,” Connor interrupted him, “I’m sure you’ve heard that sergeant Lou doesn’t attract me either intimately or romantically. If you are going to repeat yourself, don’t bother. I’ve heard it first time.”

 

He sounded almost passive-aggressively, and his slightly annoyed look complimented it. Perhaps a human would avert eyes. Connor stubbornly continued looking at Hank.

 

“Pal, this is too difficult,” Hank finally mumbled out. “Give some time, okay?”

“Of course,” Connor’s face changed immediately, losing all the signs of anger it ever had, “sure, Hank, you should have said it right from the start.”

  
  


***

 

And they didn’t bring it up for almost two weeks: on the eighth of November Jeffrey dropped info on their desktops for a new case concerning yet another extremist group hostile to androids (they called themselves “retrogrades”, and retrograde Hank always felt insulted), and they both hurled themselves into work. The case ended drastically and dramatically: the gang leader didn’t even bother hiding, so when Connor and Hank came to search his house — with a warrant, all according to protocol, — he jumped them with a knife.

 

He was so nuts nobody even sold him a rifle.

 

He aimed at Connor — and against all odds hit him. The knife pierced him slightly above the thirium pump, Hank couldn’t do anything, it all came to fast: the assault, the hit, and the next second the nutcase was lying face down while Connor was reading him his rights in an untrembling voice.

 

A thirium puddle gathered beneath them. The nutcase squealed like a demon sprinkled with holy water.

 

There was nothing to worry about, nobody even got scared in that short fight. The technicians arrived, patched Connor up on site and recommended to run self-diagnostics and come for repairs if anything was wrong.

 

“Half an inch lower,” one of the Cyberlife technicians said (all of them now wore a uniform with blue crosses), “and that’s it,  _ finita.  _ Do you ever back-up?”

“Everyday,” Connor replied. He was sitting in the back of a van, bare-chested, looking awfully human. All he was missing was a shock blanket.

 

Hank was standing aside, nervously smoking. He felt a bit shaky, coming up from stress. It wasn’t like anything happened to Connor: he waited patiently for the technicians not ever changing his expression. The technicians arrived fast. Hank didn’t want to think what could happen were they less prompt.

 

“Half an inch lower?” he repeated quietly after Connor dressed and came closer. His torn shirt was covered in thirium. The coat was most certainly in the same condition, but the black fabric hid the spots. 

“Nothing to worry,” Connor replied. “In the worst case they would replace my thirium pump and restore my memory disc. I would remember everything except for today.”

“You know what,” Hank grinded the cigarette butt with his heel, “fuck Jeffrey and his reports, he can wait for tomorrow. Let’s go home.”

“Your place?”

“Like I’d go to yours. Would I even fit into the closet those scrooges assigned for you?”

 

A blue comet of thirium splashes ran across Connor’s face: the drops must have got onto his face when he deflected the knife. Hank smothered a compulsion to wipe them away.

 

“It’s not a closet,” Connor said on their way to the car. “It’s just a room. Of course there is enough space for both of us.”

 

Cyberlife built several skyscrapers for the new citizens of Detroit, which were basically endless conglomerations of cell-blocks. Androids didn’t need human conveniences: bathrooms, beds, kitchens. They didn’t need window views. Although many of them prefered normal houses, and Hank could understand them: when you spend all your life being something like a household appliance and then get a personality with a bunch of rights, you’d want something yours. Some kind of property. Something material to prove that you have the right.

 

It’s capitalism, can’t fight it.

 

Connor refused from getting his own house. He would refuse most human things, but Jeffrey personally forbade him coming to work in the suit with giant letters ANDROID on the back.

 

They went shopping together. The boldest thing Connor bought was a pale pink hoodie.

 

Sometimes Hank would think that Connor hadn’t become a deviant after all, but then he would do something so out of line, like that Riverside park story. Or with sergeant Lou. Or his kitchen experiments — Connor suddenly discovered his cooking passion, and then by trial and error he found out that following the instructions precisely isn’t necessary. Sometimes it turned out awful, sometimes splendid, but most times mediocre. It must have been Connor’s way of expressing his individuality.

 

He cooked in Hank’s kitchen, which was never used so intensely since the house was bought.

 

He cooked at Hank’s (and for Hank), and watched movies with Hank, and read books from Hank’s paper library, and sometimes stayed for the night on Hank’s couch, curling up with Sumo, the traitor.

 

_ Oh my God,  _ Hank thought,  _ I’m such a thick idiot. _

 

“What if your head got torn off,” he asked once they left the car and came to the porch, “what then?”

“My memory would be restored in a new body,” Connor replied stopping to scratch Sumo behind the ears.

“Haven’t you heard that your barricade friends are against body donation?”

“That’s for bodies with a preinstalled processor. A body without a processor is just a housing.”

 

Hank frowned. He couldn’t get used to Connor’s indifference to his own body. As if it was something one could buy in a shop.

 

“But that wouldn’t be you,” he insisted. “Wouldn’t it lose something? Some character trait. Something unique about you. You’ve told me that.”

 

Connor let Sumo go, who ran outside to do what all dogs do. Hank took a scoop in the hall, and they stood with Connor on the porch like a silly parody of  _ American gothic. _

 

Sumo had a little limp in his right hind leg, but the vet to whom they’d brought the dog told them everything was within normal limits. “He doesn’t get younger, you know.” Hank thought then: neither do I.

 

“What is consciousness if not a sum-total of memories?” Connor asked. “However it would be a pity to lose this body. It’s customized. I would need to reinstall the upgrade and have it recalibrated.”

“Dear God,” Hank mumbled and went to clean up after Sumo. When he was back Connor looked at him curiously.

 

Thankfully he didn’t say anything.

 

“I just want you to be more careful,” Hank said.

 

In the kitchen Connor took his chair ( _ his chair,  _ a tragical ring sounded in Hank’s head) and waited for Hank to wash his hands and make himself a coffee. He didn’t want to eat, but wanted to drink something. There was no alcohol at home at all, so a cold morning coffee would do.

 

“But I am careful.” Connor had a unique ability to continue any discussion right from the place where it was interrupted, even if took place a week ago. Like he would build a dialog tree in his mind, save it and then load it again at any moment. Perhaps that’s how it was. “As I’ve said, I wouldn’t want to lose this body.”

 

Hank couldn’t take it anymore, so he reached for Connor and wiped the thirium off his face. Connor’s eyes rounded in surprise. He opened his lips, as if holding a dazed gasp.

 

“Thirium,” Hank explained awkwardly and showed his hand. “Your face is covered in it. As is your shirt. And I’m pretty sure under the shirt as well. Go take a shower while you’re here.”

 

The pale pink hoodie ended up here. Sometimes Hank thought that Connor bought it specially for his visits. Sumo’s light fur, which he generously left everywhere, was barely visible on the pale fleece.

 

Connor nodded. He stood up keeping his eyes on Hank, turned around and went to the bathroom.

 

Hank exhaled slowly and looked at his thirium covered fingers. It was difficult to perceive it as blood. Blood was red, almost black, with a distinct smell of something metallic and heavy: of fear and death. Thirium had no smell, at least not for humans. It had no taste. It could as well be coloured water.

 

He felt hot, and trying to distract himself he started petting Sumo. The dog put his head in Hank’s lap and made a deep sigh — in tune with the sound of water running from the shower. Hank imagined the blue blood flowing down Connor’s body, his thighs, his ankles, getting paler and paler till it disappeared in the drain. He shouldn’t have imagined that.

 

He patted Sumo’s ears again.

 

Connor returned to the kitchen in about five minutes, wearing only his pants and leaving a wet trail behind him, and Hank belatedly remembered that he’d thrown all the towels into the laundry basket that very morning. Connor’s chest was plastic white: a plate with a logo and a serial number crossed by a bulgy trace. Like a welding seam.

 

Hank realized he was staring and shifted his gaze to Connor’s face. Everything just got worse: his hair was brushed back, but his forehead, cheeks and lips were still wet. It looked almost lewd.

 

“I cannot activate my skin for now,” Connor reported, blinking water off his eyelashes. “Some of the coating has to be replaced, but that can wait till tomorrow night.”

“Does it hurt?” Hank asked. Sumo started whining, and he realized he grasped Sumo by the withers too hard.

“No. During any technical manipulation I drop the sensor sensitivity to zero, and then slowly increase during calibration.”

 

He shook his head awkwardly.

 

“Take a towel from the closet,” Hank said. “And, uh, your hoodie is there too. Well, you know.”

 

Connor nodded, but didn’t move a bit.

 

“We could have sex,” he said.

 

Hank stared at him in silence.

 

“Sex is a rather efficient way to relieve tension after a stressful event,” Connor continued nonchalantly, still dripping onto the kitchen floor. “First of all it triggers oxytocin pro-”

“Okay,” Hank interrupted him just to see what would happen next.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s have sex. Great idea.”

 

Connor’s face turned incredulous for a couple of seconds, but it was quickly replaced with a smile. His smile was so heart-stirring, Hank felt ashamed for daring him.

 

“Look, Connor,” he said in rush, averting his eyes. “I didn’t-”

 

He didn’t finish. Connor came up to him and squatted down, leaving his hand on Hank’s knee. His white chest plate looked sort of absurd in contrast to human body, but Hank felt neither disgusted nor repulsed.

 

For some reason his fingers were tingling with a desire to touch the bulgy plastic scar.

 

“Hank,” Connor called him gently. He stood up, touched his shoulders with some hesitation, as if afraid Hank would jerk back, but when Hank didn’t move he drew him closer.

 

Hank could push him away, but he got cold feet. He pressed his forehead against the place where the thirium pump was. There, under the layer of wet plastic, it steadily pumped the blue blood, vibrating at the perception limit. This vibration felt like purring.

 

Connor’s fingers rested on his nape, rummaged his hair.

 

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Hank said with a sigh, “but ‘cause I have no idea whatsoever, why the hell would you bother with this fuss.”

“I thought I was-”

“Yeah, you were clear enough. I believe you. But you…” He stammered. “It’s no good when two people fuck and only one of them enjoys it.”

 

He should have moved away, but Hank didn’t want to look Connor in the eye, and didn’t want him to stop stroking his hair.

 

“It’s just like… jerking off? No offence. But it’s one thing to jerk off using a thing, there are toys for that and the good old fist. And it’s another when there is someone thinking by your side. Somebody self-conscious. It shouldn’t be like that, it’s wrong.”

“My sensors are calibrated to the pattern of erogenous zones of a male human,” was Connor’s silent reply. Something resonated in his chest with each word, as if the sound was formed there, swelled and came out with the air flow. “I understand that sex by mutual consent implies both parties derive pleasure, and the a lack of pleasure can be uncomfortable for the participants.”

 

“For God’s sake, can you go easier on me?”

 

Hank finally pulled back and looked at Connor.

 

“I enjoy sex. My body is capable of this.”

 

Hank couldn’t help laughing.

 

“Did you get to fuck somebody already?”

“No.” A human might have looked offended, at least by the surprise and condescension in Hank’s tone, but Connor remained unstirred. “But after the installation of the augmentations and the software I passed all necessary tests.”

 

His hand slid again to Hank’s shoulder. 

 

“However,” he added, confused, “my chest sensors are out of order. But all data is stored, so after the casing is replaced they will function again.” He made a pause, as if to think. “If the sensitivity of my chest is crucial to you, we can postpone intimacy.”

 

Each word knocked the air out of Hank.

 

“So you can’t feel that?” he asked, touching the plastic scar.

“Unfortunately, no,” Connor replied and tilted his head to the side. “But I would like you touch me somewhere where my sensors are fully functioning.”

“Meaning where?”

 

Without any warning Connor sat in his lap, spreading his legs. Somehow he managed it without any vulgarity, still being his usual self: calm and collected, with those precise and right movements of his.

 

Everything was perfect, he must have calculated each step to the fullest.

 

Connor took Hank’s hand, placing it on his cheek. His lips opened.

 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

 

Instead of an answer Hank pulled him in by the neck and kissed him: a single chaste touch. Connor deepened the kiss — slid his tongue against Hank’s lower lip and made him open his mouth, all while keeping his fingers on Hank’s chin.

 

“Hey,” Hank mumbled, confused, with his hand on Connor’s chest, “where did you learn that?”

 

Connor sat straight.

 

“Nothing complicated about it,” he explained without realizing that he just rendered null all that is sacred about human intimacy. It took years for humans to learn it. Hank’s first kiss was somewhere between a laryngoscopic examination and a horror film where a space monster tries to invade a human body through the mouth.

 

Connor kissed him again, and Hank grasped him by the hairs on the back of his head, making the kiss deeper and dirtier. His palm, resting under the collar bone, felt the familiar purry vibration, the unformed sound.

 

With a childlike awe Hank realized that it was Connor making this sound.

 

“You like this,” he muttered, dumbfounded.

“Yes. I told you so.”

 

He moved closer, his crotch was flush against Hank’s hardening cock.

 

“Jesus,” Hank muttered and ran his hand along Connor’s neck, stopping at the shiny white panel. It was smooth and cold — in contrast to his soft and warm skin.

 

Not a human. A year ago Hank would be deeply disgusted, not at the android but rather at himself. Something similar tried emerge now as well, some loathsome voice, haunting and repeating: an imitation, it’s all just an imitation.

 

“Hank,” Connor stammered out, leaning over his ear, and smoothly pushed his hips forward. Hank moaned, grabbing him by the forearm. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

“You want to the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

 

Connor stood up from his lap, and Hank followed him, feeling ever weaker. His head felt light and empty.

 

The lights in the bedroom were out, and Hank didn’t want to switch them on, although he understood that an android’s sight is ten times better than a human’s. He would be able to see whatever he wanted. If he wanted.

 

But the dusk calmed him. A blue LED flashed in front of him, leaving a light trace. Hank reached out and hid it with two of his fingers. The poor lighting from the hall left grey shadows on Connor’s face, turning his soft features into an angular mosaic. He was designed to look handsome, but even a year later Hank couldn’t get used to how beautiful he was.

 

Connor stood still, then, as if switched on, started unbuttoning Hank’s shirt. A human would swear, hurry and fail at the fine movements, but not a-  _ Ah, to hell with it _ , Hank thought. He drew Connor closer by the waist and pressed his lips to Connor’s neck, making him curve to expose himself to the caresses. Hank’s free hand slid under Connor’s belt. His fingers ran over the smooth skin.

 

And found nothing.

 

Hank pulled back his hand and set it against Connor’s chest.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Wait, hold on. You said that you, errr, made an upgrade. Installed there. Augmentations. Whatever.”

“Correct.”

 

Talking was awkward. Hank rubbed his nose with the edge of his hand.

 

“I guess I’ve got something wrong.”

“No, I think it’s my mistake.” Connor took a couple steps back, unzipped his pants and took them off, but Hank still couldn’t see a thing. He stepped aside, letting in some light from the hallway.

“You don’t have a dick,” he said in a deadpan voice, and laughed nervously.

 

Connor stood like an experienced life model, calm and relaxed, without any embarrassment for his own nudity. Hank might have not felt any embarrassment were he built as nice.

 

Designed, his nasty inner voice corrected. His body was shaped in a program by Cyberlife sculptors. Each muscle, each birthmark, each hair. His delicate ankles, his iliac muscles, visibly showing through the skin. His damn belly button, a mocking hint of organic origin: a robot never fed on a mother, as it never grew in a womb. A robot wouldn’t need a damn belly button, yet here it was.

 

“I have a female genitalia set,” Connor explained. “The body of an RK800 is not meant for sexual functions. There are compatible models, but male genitalia require more space. Their installation requires reassembling and readjusting of some biocomponents, but for now Cyberlife doesn’t provide such a possibility.” He tilted his head to the side. “I’m a prototype, not a mass model. In future, maybe...”

 

Hank listened to him with half an ear, his brain barely managed to process every third word of it. He was looking down — there, where the toned abs changed into a smooth pubis.

 

“Hank, I-” now Connor’s voice rang nervous, and Hank finally moved his gaze to his face. “I know you had romantic relations with men and women alike, which is why I assumed that… it wouldn’t be a problem for you. Perhaps I went to far.

 

The LED ran a full circle clockwise and switched to yellow. Hank let out the breath he was holding.

 

“Mother of God,” he said.

“Hank,” now Connor’s voice sounded really nervous, “I can-”

“No, no,” Hank interrupted him, “It’s okay.”

“Androids don’t have a biological sex.” It seemed like he tried to justify himself, and it was unbearable to listen to. “To ease the communication with humans I identify myself as a man, but in reality-”

“Connor,” Hank curbed him. “It’s okay. I was just surprised.” He gulped, he felt hot, his neck was all wet. “Can I..?”

 

Connor nodded and stepped back, to the bed. For some reason Hank was worried Connor would behave like a traci from Eden, but he just sat down on the edge, all nervously focused as usual. He would be sitting like this at the station whenever he had nothing to do, which was almost always.

 

Coming closer, Hank brushed Connor’s disheveled hair, still a bit wet, touched his ear, and right then Connor helplessly rubbed against his palm.

 

“Scoot over,” Hank said, not recognizing his own voice. Connor moved further back.

 

He wished he had switched the light on, but whatever. Hank’s knee bumped against the bed between Connor’s spreaded legs, so that Hank was now hanging over him, feeling the hand muscles twitching a little. Blasphemy, the nasty inner voice summarized; Hank got a suspicion it was his common sense trying to reach him. 

 

“Hank,” Connor muttered reaching for him to brush the hair away from his forehead. “Please.”

 

He didn’t even want to know what was that please about, but for some reason he answered.

“Yes,” and ran his palm down Connor’s stomach, till it reached the place between the legs.

 

Connor’s hips jerked up, meeting the palm, and a hot wave ran through Hank: maybe because of the contrast between the impassive face ant the impulsive body response, maybe because he finally got his hands on something he actually avoided even in his thoughts, maybe because of everything at once. He let a ragged breath out.

 

“I can activate any scenario,” Connor said. His LED was steady yellow: apparently that meant information processing, some hard thinking before taking a decision. “I can-”

“Can you behave… as usual?” Hank asked.

 

The LED switched to blue. Connor smiled.

 

“Of course.”

 

Hank took his hand away to spit on the palm, then put it back and pushed one finger inside. Connor’s grasp on his nape became almost painful, but the pain ran through along his spine and reverberated with a nice heaviness below the belt. Connor jerked up again, but Hank nailed him to the bed with his free hand.

 

On the inside he felt wet and hot.

 

“Good lord,” Hank added another finger, bent them, pressed his thumb to the clit, and on the fourth push Connor grabbed his forearm. Hank stopped on the spot. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Connor replied, loosening his grip. “Maybe you want to-”

 

Hank drew him in by the neck and kissed. Connor pliantly opened his mouth, his whole body stretched forwards, while his fingers left Hank’s nape only to get under his shirt.

 

The contrast between the cold plastic and warm skin made Hank swoon, he realized he couldn’t take it any more.

 

“Wait a sec.” He got out of Connor’s grasp to unzip his pants and get rid of them along with the underwear. His hand ran along his erected dick; Hank bit his lip, somehow too embarrassed to moan out loud.

 

Connor levered himself on his outstretched arms. In the dim light his eyes gleamed red, his face was unreadable. This gaze bored a hole in the back of Hank’s head while he was rummaging through the drawers looking for lube, with a vague hope it hadn’t expired yet.

 

Not like he had needed it lately for anything but lonely jerking off.

 

“You…” he turned around with a bottle in his hand. “Do the contents matter?”

“This will do,” Connor replied, blinking yellow. “But there’s no need. My body is able to produce non-toxic thirium-based lube.”

“That’s some crazy shit,” Hank said just because he wanted to say something like that aloud. He felt like he could burst. Like he was a teen again. Feeling like a teen being fifty four, that was one hell of a pleasure.

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

 

He didn’t lie: he hadn’t felt so good in a long time, it was even too good, and that gave him suspicions. Something was off. Wrong. Like he would wake up from Sumo’s whine, alone, and the only proof of what happened would be his jizzed boxers.

 

But Connor was real, and so were the bruises which were going to bloom on his forearm, and so was the tight heat around his fingers — everything was real. Like the wet rails in the Riverside park on the seventh of November. Like the Detroit river. Like the Ambassador bridge.

 

Also Hank’s imagination was too poor to come up with something like that.

 

He came back and Connor threw his arms around Hank’s neck, almost hanging on him, spreaded his legs and locked Hank between his knees. Hank mechanically stroked his thigh, trying and failing to choke the heat breaking through, mixed with some creepy burning feeling.

 

He bent over and pressed his lips first to the bulging plastic scar, then to the thirium regulator hidden under the skin. It was there, Hank knew. Half an inch — that’s what the technician had said. Connor put his hand on the back of Hank’s head, then moved it down, stroking Hank’s nape with a thumb.

 

“Hank,” he said. “Hank,” he repeated with more persistence and impatience, as if trying to reach him.

“Yeah,” Hank replied absent-mindedly. He stood straight, grabbing him under the thighs. “By the way, can you come at all?”

“Orgasm is a human body reaction. I’m not organic.”

 

Hank stopped.

 

“Well, I didn’t mean orgasm as such,” he explained. “I asked if you can come.”

 

The LED blinked yellow a couple of times. Connor smiled.

 

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“But you were tested.”

“I was tested for my ability to enjoy the process.” Connor sat up again. “Hank. Please, don’t get distracted.”

 

He looked so serious, so collected, that Hank couldn’t help a laugh. He squeezed the lube on his palm and threw the bottle away, which slid down from the sheets and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

 

Only now Hank realized how quiet it was in the house. His own dampy breathes ragged through the silence.

 

“I often imagined… things,” Hank confessed falteringly while rubbing the lube along his dick. “Not exactly in the same way as now, because your… upgrade kind of disoriented me. But something close.”

 

He swallowed. For some reason this seemed important.

 

“I also tried to predict possible scenarios for our relationship.” While Hank was struggling with words, Connor spoke with ease. “It was… frustrating. Even though we’ve known each other long enough, I can’t always predict how you will act in various situations.”

“People don’t predict,” Hank sighed. “People imagine. Not like they are going to do whatever they fantasize about.”

 

Connor cast his eyes down, watching unwaveringly his hand moving. His gaze was uncomfortably intent, even though Hank couldn’t clearly see his face in the dim light. He felt hot again: a wave ran from the back of his head and along his spine, as if scalded with hot water.

 

“Why?” Connor asked, looking up once again.

“Because. The fear of denial is often stronger than the desire.”

“I wouldn’t deny you.”

“Connor,” Hank started nervously, but Connor pulled him in, took Hank’s head in his hands and kissed him.

 

Hank made a low moan into his mouth, but Connor just kept kissing him, and once Hank drew back for a breath he started licking neck, his teeth slightly scraping the skin.

 

“Lie back,” Hank whispered, realizing he was miserably close to coming almost untouched. “Now, come on.”

 

He gently pressed Connor to the bed, settled himself, grasped Connor under his ass, and thrust his hips tentatively. He didn’t get in right away: his cock would slip off, making Connor shudder every time.

 

“Does it hurt?”

“Hank,” Connor replied, sounding annoyed, “I’ve already-”

“Okay, fine, right,” Hank interrupted him and made another push. His cock slid in almost completely in one go. “Oh God, fuck.”

 

Connor put his fingers on the back of Hank’s head and reached forward again, pressing his lips to Hank’s cheek. Hank caught his breath and started moving, desperately trying to find a rhythm, because Connor wouldn’t stop squirming — thrusting his hips forwards, squeezing him between his knees. Hank’s hands were shaking. He hadn’t done anything like this in a gajillion years, and twice as long hadn’t felt so aroused. 

 

“Fuck.” He let out a low moan, not trying to hold it in anymore, because Connor finally crossed his ankles behind his back, trapping him in an iron lock. “Fuck, Connor.”

 

He didn’t know what to expect. It felt both like sex with a woman and like sex with a man, and wasn’t like any sex Hank ever had.

 

He felt an unbearable desire to look Connor in the face.

 

“Connor,” he asked, holding him by the shoulders, “look at me?”

 

Connor sank back against the bed, arching his lower back, as if trying to prolong the contact. His eyes were wide open, the LED switched between yellow and blue, sometimes flashing red.

 

Hank touched Connor’s chin, run his knuckles against his cheek.

 

“Everything okay?” he asked.

 

Finally he found a rhythm.

 

“Hank, I’m not…” Connor’s voice cautiously faltered. “Yes.”

“What’re you feeling?”

“Sensory overload,” Connor replied in spurts, pausing with every push. “Data. Immense data amounts. The CPU is loaded… almost completely.”

“In human language?”

“It’s very pleasant.” Connor answered with a wry smile, as if not managing his expression anymore. “I could… demonstrate it more clearly, but you asked to act as usual.”

“No,” Hank said. “No, it’s fine.”

 

He pressed his forehead to Connor’s shoulder and went faster. It was chilly in the house, but he was covered in sweat; the hand resting on the bed was shaking. He wouldn’t last long like this.

 

“Connor,” he muttered shortly, trying to pull back. “I-”

 

Connor swept him with a strange look. Right now he looked like a human having their first ride: confused, excited, bewildered, trying to realize what was going on. Maybe this look was the end for Hank: he pulled out to jerk it off, and Connor immediately sat up, they almost smashed their heads — Connor managed to dodge it in the last second.

 

“Hank,” he said, surprised, but Hank didn’t let him finish, pulling him in by the shoulders and pressing their lips together, and then he came with a shudder, smearing cum all over Connor’s chest and stomach.

 

He froze, catching his breath and trying to stop the shake in his muscles, not realizing at first that Connor was kissing him: his cheeks, his eyelids, his temple, as if marking him. Hank exhaled and absent-mindedly bumped his forehead against his shoulder.

 

“Do you need,” he faltered, “help?”

“Help?”

“Yeah.”

“With what?” Connor moved aside.

“With coming, for God’s sake.”

 

Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired and, maybe, a little bit in love, although he tried to pay it no attention. After sex the body could sell the brain on anything.

 

“I don’t,” Connor replied. “But I would like another round.”

“Oh, no, you’ll have to wait for that.” With a sway Hank stood up from the bed and went to the closet, taking his shirt off along the way. He even forgot having it on. “But that’s your fault, shouldn’t have chosen an old guy. Now you’ll have to make do with missionary sex once a month.”

 

He took a towel from the closet and went back to bed.

 

“Sergeant Lou, on the other hand…”

 

Connor’s temple blinked red.

 

“Hank,” he warned.

“Just kidding.” He sat down with Connor and wiped the cum from his stomach, then balled up the towel and threw it to the floor. “No more talking about her nice company and work skills.”

 

At first Connor silently stared, then reached for him and ran his fingertips along Hank’s chest, tracing the discoloured tattoo.

 

“There’ve been bets around the station whether we are in an intimate relationship.”

“Yeah?” Hank wasn’t really surprised. A month ago he would have shown some indignation, but now he was kind of glad.

“Yes. It’s the second most popular bet. I guess it’s partially my fault they’ve been talking about it.”

 

Hank raised his eyebrows in question.

 

“On the twenty fourth of June, when you caught a cold and stayed at home, sergeant Reed came up to me and said, quote,  _ what, you screwed Anderson till he wasn’t able to go to the station? _ ”

“What an asshole,” Hank replied without any passion.

“I recognized it was an attempt to verbally insult me and asked sergeant Reed, why did he assume that an intimate connection between us was humiliating for any of the parties.”

“Jesus. So what’s the most popular bet?”

“My genitalia configuration.”

 

With a laugh Hank sank back onto the pillows. Connor immediately was upon him.

 

“Pretty sure everybody gets this one wrong.”

“Sergeant Reed bets ten bucks on, quote,  _ a cunt _ .”

“So you’ve got a full-on bromance with that latent robot fucker.”

“He said the same. About bromance.

 

A pause. A smile.

 

Connor sat down near him, leaning on the headboard. It was touching and sad: he must’ve found what to do during sex, but not what to do after.

 

Didn’t consider it necessary or important.

 

Something glistened in Connor’s hands. He threw the coin up and caught it on his thumb nail.

 

“I don’t wanna know where you’ve got that from,” Hank grumbled.

 

Connor smiled. He snapped his fingers and the coin disappeared.

 

“Seriously?”

“I need to run a calibration,” Connor replied, “scan the systems and correct something for future, so that a physical contact goes even more satisfactory. And the coin was behind the pillow. Must have fallen from your pocket.”

“For future?” Hank couldn’t help asking.

“Do you mind?”

“Can you run your calibration while lying with your eyes closed?”

“I can,” Connor replied. Hank waited for him to throw the coin again, then caught it midair, looking for the shine. He put on the bedside table.

“Then try to lie still with your eyes closed for the next seven hours.”

 

Hank pulled him close, and he carefully lied down, with his head on Hank’s chest. Whatever they used to make androids, but his head was light, and he was breathing, even though he most certainly had no need to bother.

 

“Six hours fourteen minutes,” he said.

“What?”

 

Connor pressed his cheek to Hank’s chest and threw his arm over Hank’s stomach. The LED blinked yellow, but turned back to blue right after.

 

“The shift at the station starts at nine sharp.”

“So there is no chance to sleep in?”

“None.”

 

He couldn’t see Connor smiling, but he could feel it.

 

“What have I signed up for,” Hank sighed and ruffled Connor’s hair.

  
  



End file.
